Amy K. Gaskin
I serve as a community connector and advocate for adults 55+ who refuse to let aging be something that happens to them — and instead choose to navigate it with clarity, dignity, and strength.
Through Ask Amy About Aging, community initiatives, and strategic media partnerships, I connect families, professionals, and local businesses in ways that strengthen trust, visibility, and long-term community impact.
I became Aging Maven Aficionado in 2019 — not because I wanted a title, but because I felt a calling.
Aging isn’t something to fear. It’s something to navigate — honestly, boldly, and together.
“Why Aging Maven Aficionado?”
Aging isn’t something that just happens to us.
It’s something we walk through — sometimes confidently, sometimes cautiously — but always with questions.
In 2019, I stepped fully into the title Aging Maven Aficionado — not because I wanted a label, but because I recognized a calling.
Seniors needed advocacy.
Families needed clarity.
Communities needed someone willing to stand in that gap.
And businesses committed to serving adults 55+ needed strategy built on trust and long-term impact.
That’s where I step in.
Through Ask Amy About Aging, community initiatives, and strategic media partnerships, I’ve worked to bridge those gaps.
I’ve helped families ask better questions — and find real answers.
I’ve helped seniors connect to trusted resources.
I’ve helped local businesses serve the 55+ community with clarity and heart.
I’ve helped communities grow stronger through meaningful connection.
Because aging well isn’t accidental.
It’s intentional.
It’s built through conversations.
Through courage.
Through clarity.
It’s built when someone is willing to stand in the gap — and walk through it with you.
That’s the work I’ve committed to.
“My Journey”
I have never believed we walk through life alone.
There are people who step onto the train of our lives and change its direction forever.
From the beginning, I was surrounded by people who shaped me — quietly, powerfully, permanently.
My parents were my first foundation.
My dad believed in doing your best at everything you tried. If I didn’t understand something, he didn’t rush me — he explained it again. And again. Until I got it. We played endless card games and board games, and every year I proudly joined the annual “Father, Son & Amy” fishing trips. He never let the fact that he didn’t have a son stop either of us.
My mom gave me presence. She stayed home with me until high school, drove Jackie, Jill, and me everywhere, and taught us discipline with creativity.
But more than that, she made life celebratory.
Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, the Kentucky Derby, birthdays — she knew how to turn ordinary days into memories. She taught me that celebrations aren’t about extravagance; they’re about intention. About making people feel seen.
One summer when the three of us were testing everyone’s patience, she packed a bag, picked up the twins, and told us we were being taken to an orphanage in Maine.
It was the quietest car ride of our lives.
An hour later, we pulled into Aquaboggan Water Park.
We laughed all day. And we behaved the rest of the summer.
That was my mom — structure wrapped in joy.
I am incredibly proud of the business she built. The sports memorabilia store she owns is more than a shop — it’s her legacy of grit and entrepreneurship. Even though I’m not the biggest sports fan, I grew up cheering for the New England Patriots, Celtics, Red Sox, and Bruins. Those teams will always have a place in my heart.
New England fans are proud. Loyal. Steady.
Win or lose, they show up.
I learned that, too.
My grandparents deepened that foundation.
My Grampa died when I was just four years old. But he left me full of love. I still remember waking in the night, somehow knowing he was gone before anyone told me. That sense of connection has stayed with me ever since.
My Grampie was the next to go. He encouraged me to compete — and to finish. During an eighth-grade cross-country race, a bee stung me and I wanted to quit. He was standing at exactly the right place yelling, “Go. You’ve got this.” I ran faster. I finished. I still hear that voice when things get hard.
Nana taught me that family is everything. When dementia began to take pieces of her memory, I drove down from college with photographs and stories. She always remembered me. Those visits quietly prepared me for the work I would one day do in senior living — understanding that dignity and familiarity matter more than anything.
Grammie showed me strength. She took me to Paris. She let me drive her car. She powered through pain in her later years with grace and grit. I inherited my resilience from her — the instinct to say what needs to be said and to show up for people even when it’s hard. Wednesdays were sacred — summer lunches with her and Uncle Henry that felt like time stood still.
And then there was Aunt Alice.
She was independent, strong, and owned her own store. One fall changed everything. She was alone in her home for days before anyone found her. She never returned to live there again.
Her story never left me.
It’s one of the reasons I became fascinated with technology and systems that help seniors age safely in place. If tools had existed then the way they do now, her story may have unfolded differently.
If my grandparents gave me roots, my cousins gave me belonging.
Cousins mean more when you are an only child
Whether it’s sleep overs, time together on the lake during the summer, holidays, and celebrations. Family means traditions, togetherness, and so much more.
Summer at the lake was wonderful, but going the Saturday after Thanksgiving to Great Uncle Bill’s and Great Aunt Jane’s cabin has some of the most special memories.
The Saturday after Thanksgiving was sacred. We gathered, ate a huge feast, put on performances, and then went out together to cut down our Christmas trees. Cathy, Brian, Todd, Andrea, Jennifer — all of us bundled up and laughing. It was tradition. It was rhythm. It was home.
My cousin Chip always made me feel safe growing up. I knew if anything ever happened, I could go to him.
Brian is still that steady presence. We spent our 21st New Year’s together in Portland, Maine — the night I learned alcohol wasn’t really my thing. Some lessons are simple. Some are lasting.
Family wasn’t just something we talked about.
It was something we lived.
My first friends
Just before my 7th birthday, we moved to Hampton, NH. It was August 1978, and that will become the time I met my most memorable childhood friends.
Jackie and Jill — the twins who really did live up the hill — were inseparable parts of my childhood. From second grade through high school, we were a trio. My driveway was at the base of that hill, and one of my earliest memories is crashing bikes with Jackie and laughing anyway.
As high school unfolded, Jackie and Jill became part of a different crowd. They found their rhythm, their popularity, their path. And I found mine.
Our hearts were still connected, but we were learning an early life lesson — sometimes people grow in different directions, and that doesn’t mean the love disappears.
Winnacunnet High school
That was the season when Marlo became my steady ground.
We experienced so many “firsts” together — first jobs, first independence, first boyfriends (who, ironically, were best friends). We were figuring out who we were becoming in real time.
Marlo would later marry that first boyfriend. Not immediately — life took her to Georgia, through college, and back again. But sometimes distance clarifies what matters. She found her way back to him, and I stood beside her years later as she stood beside me as my maid of honor.
Some friendships are chapters.
Some are lifetime anchors.
We grew up together. Learned together. Tested limits together.
And my mom was right there in the middle of it all.
Senior year took a very different turn.
Marlo was moving to Georgia and I needed a change. So I applied to military school and got in.
Randolph Macon academy
I attended Randolph-Macon Academy, a military school in Virginia. Structure replaced spontaneity. Leadership was expected. Discipline was daily.
I almost earned my pilot’s license — a childhood dream rooted in wanting to fly for the Air Force. Even though that path eventually changed, the courage to chase it never left me.
I was runner-up for Homecoming Queen that year, something that meant more to me than the title itself. I had made a point to treat the younger cadets with respect. I believed leadership wasn’t about rank — it was about how you showed up for people.
They voted with their hearts.
And I learned something important:
Age doesn’t determine wisdom.
Sometimes the younger ones teach you just as much as you guide them.
That lesson has followed me into every season of life — into classrooms, boardrooms, churches, and communities.
Respect earns loyalty.
Integrity earns trust.
I grew up a huge Disney fan. My mom took me annually. It was magic, tradition, and imagination wrapped into one.
But senior year was different.
I was on drill team, and we were invited to march in a parade at Walt Disney World. Not just visit — march. Perform. Be part of it.
We went backstage.
That alone felt like stepping into another world.
At one point, I broke ranks to hug a Disney character before slipping right back into formation as the gate opened for us to enter the parade. It was impulsive and joyful — and completely me.
Magic and discipline, side by side.
After the parade, spring break began, and I stayed in Florida to visit Uncle Walter and Auntie Eleanor. I spent time with my cousins — Soleil, Tara, Sandy — soaking in family and warmth before heading home.
But going home was different.
I had come down with the band and drill team. Now I was traveling alone — on a Greyhound bus.
It felt brave when I left.
It felt very different when I got off in Jacksonville.
I couldn’t do it.
I called my dad in tears.
He didn’t hesitate.
He got me a plane ticket. Called a cab. Made sure the driver made me feel safe. And I flew the rest of the way home.
That moment mattered.
Not because I “failed” at taking the bus — but because I learned two things:
It’s okay to ask for help.
And you are never truly alone.
Years later, I was traveling with Grammie. We had a layover in Atlanta, an unexpected delay, hotel vouchers, dinner paid by the airline. She began to get nervous.
This time, I wasn’t the one calling my dad.
I was the calm one.
It was my turn to keep us safe.
And I did.
After high school, I thought I had my path mapped out.
I had dreamed of becoming an Air Force pilot and even prepared to attend Embry-Riddle. It sounded prestigious. Impressive. Like the right next step.
Before college began, I lived for a few months with my Great Auntie Eleanor and Great Uncle Walter in Cape Canaveral. That season gave me something unexpected — stillness.
I spent time with family. I saw my cousins more often. I got to be present with my baby cousin Tara — my goddaughter — who had already quietly shaped my compass more than she realized.
It was Tara who gently reminded me of something important. My whole life I had talked about going to Norwich University, like my dad. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t trendy. But it was mine.
Sometimes clarity doesn’t come from prestige.
It comes from remembering who you’ve always said you were going to be.
I applied to Norwich.
And I chose it.
Living with Auntie Eleanor and Uncle Walter taught me something else too — you don’t need excess to be rich. We played Bingo together, laughed easily, and I probably won more money playing Bingo beside her than I ever made working that season.
They lived simply. But they lived fully.
That lesson stayed with me.
Choosing Norwich wasn’t just about college. It was about legacy. It was about honoring my father’s path while stepping into my own.
It was about choosing substance over “sunshine”.
That was my childhood — structure, humor, love, and lessons wrapped together.
Norwich University
Choosing Norwich wasn’t just selecting a college.
It was choosing legacy — while making it my own.
I graduated with a BA in Early Childhood and a BS in Elementary Education. Teaching felt natural. I had always loved figuring things out — and helping others do the same. If I didn’t understand something, I wouldn’t give up until I did. That trait started long before college, but Norwich sharpened it.
Norwich also stretched me beyond academics.
It was there I fell in love with Tae Kwon Do. I earned my red belt — discipline, strength, perseverance. Years later, that discipline would show up again when my entire family joined me in New Hampshire.
It was also where Dungeons & Dragons found me.
Through friends like Crystal and Steve, I discovered strategy, imagination, storytelling, and community in an entirely different way. I became Secretary of NUTS — Norwich University Tactical Society — and learned that leadership can live in unexpected places.
College wasn’t just classes.
It was Wednesday roommate appreciation nights with Kimiko — driving to Burlington for dinner and letting her shop.
It was about meeting people with different backgrounds, beliefs, and hobbies. This is where I met Tim and Paul. Two people who helped me see the world in a different light.
Tim was my first close Black friend. Growing up in a small New Hampshire town, that was new territory for me. I had questions. Honest ones. And I learned through relationship.
Paul was my first close gay friend. When he came out, he worried most about telling me — the Catholic girl. I hugged him and told him nothing changed. We still went line dancing. Still saw movies. Still laughed.
What I learned in those years is something I carry into every community I build:
People are people.
Beliefs may differ. Backgrounds may differ. Lifestyles may differ. But connection is built through presence, curiosity, and respect.
It was sharing an apartment with Crystal after graduation.
It was sitting on Steve’s bed doing homework while he worked on architecture projects — listening, learning, belonging.
And it was realizing that sometimes the people who help you fit in are the ones who quietly shape who you become.
Norwich didn’t just educate me.
It expanded me.
I stayed an extra year at Norwich, earning a second degree — not just because I could, but because I wasn’t ready to leave. I loved the rhythm, the community, the belonging.
Graduated college. . .Stepping Into the Real World
After graduation, I stayed another year in Vermont, sharing my first apartment with Crystal and driving an hour each day to Colchester, where I served as Director of a daycare center. Leadership came quickly — responsibility, parents, staff, children trusting me to guide them.
But eventually, it was time to leave the comfort of Vermont and start building a life.
I moved to McLean, Virginia and became a nanny for a little boy named Steven. He was bright, curious, and full of personality. Together, we explored Washington, D.C. — museums, monuments, fancy lunches. I was young and learning just as much as he was.
On Sundays after church, I would take the Metro across the city to visit my college friend Tim, who lived in Anacostia. The train ride alone was an education. I would board in McLean surrounded by professionals in tailored suits and polished briefcases. As the train moved east, the crowd shifted. By the time I stepped off in Anacostia, I was often the only white girl on the platform.
It was eye-opening. Not frightening — just eye-opening.
One afternoon at the movies, Tim came up behind me and covered my eyes playfully. I laughed instantly, knowing it was him. Others rushed over, assuming something was wrong.
It struck me how perception shapes reaction.
Steven once repeated something he had heard — that Black people were “not as good.” His parents were mortified. They weren’t racist. But children absorb what they hear.
That was the moment I intentionally made sure Tim spent more time with us. By the end of the summer, Steven and Tim were inseparable. Children learn what we model. That lesson stayed with me.
Preparing Steven’s birthday party for twenty of his friends was another turning point. I realized I loved creating experiences — not just teaching lessons. That instinct would show up again years later when planning unforgettable birthday parties for my own children.
Eventually, I knew I needed to use my degree. I interviewed at Naylor Road School in Southeast D.C. Many of the students had been removed from traditional public schools. I walked into that interview confident, saying, “Kids are kids — whether they’re from Vermont farmland or city streets.”
I was wrong.
The realities were different. The challenges were different. The context was different.
But what remained true was this: children still needed structure, belief, and consistency.
That year changed me. It stretched me. It prepared me for seasons I couldn’t yet imagine — including when my own daughter would face teenage pregnancy years later.
Stepping from teaching into sales
Taking a summer off from teaching, I stepped into sales for the first time — selling timeshares. It wasn’t glamorous, but it introduced me to people who would matter deeply.
That’s where I met Stephen, Christi, and Tony. We did life together outside of church — dinners, laughter, shared seasons.
Then Stephen got sick. Cancer.
Tony, Christi, and I drove back and forth to West Virginia to see him. I cared for his cat, Punkin, for a while. We held space the best we could.
Loss teaches you what matters.
After that season, I moved into the barter industry — my first real sales role at Barter Network.
That’s where something clicked.
I was connecting people. Writing newsletters. Helping business owners use barter dollars creatively — restaurants trading for vacations, plumbers remodeling bathrooms, weddings paid for almost entirely through barter.
I did 80% of my own wedding that way.
That was the first time I realized how much I loved bringing people together.
And that’s where I met Christine.
She mentored me. She taught me it was okay to be fully myself. She wouldn’t let me quit — not on a rafting trip, not in life.
She passed recently. But she remains part of my backbone.
Back to church roots + Barter to Yellow pages
Church was another anchor during those years. I became President of the Catholic Singles Group. My Vice President was Pam — older, wiser, and more life coach than peer. She saw something in me I hadn’t fully seen yet. She encouraged me to apply at Verizon. That decision changed everything. From phone sales to outside sales to internet sales training, I stepped into the world just as websites were becoming the future. I helped businesses get connected in a brand-new way. I even earned incentive trips — taking my mom to Cabo San Lucas. The girl who once sold barter dollars was now training others in emerging digital marketing.
And then there was charlie. . .
Yes — I met him through Pam’s AOL account. Yes — he was Jewish and I was President of the Catholic Singles Group. Life has a sense of humor.
He introduced himself as “Charlie,” not Charles or Chuck. We talked all night. Had a date the next day.
Engaged by September.
He drove twelve hours to ask my father for my hand in marriage — after finally getting his driver’s license because I refused to marry a man who didn’t have one.
We were married in May 2000 — under a Huppah in a Catholic Church, wrapped in deep royal purple. His mother stitched the names of our deceased grandparents into the canopy.
It was the most beautiful blending of faith, family, and tradition.
Motherhood and Adoption
Shortly after our wedding, Shaniece was born.
I was the second person to hold her.
Though I couldn’t become pregnant myself, motherhood found me in a different way. She spent weekends with us, then eventually came to live with us full time.
Love doesn’t always arrive the way you expect it to — but when it does, it changes everything.
We fostered. We hosted exchange students. We opened our home.
Kevin and TeeKecia first came for a short stay.
Then the call came.
Would we take them?
Yes.
We adopted them.
Three children. One home. Endless adjustments. Infinite love.
Love sees no color. It sees responsibility.
Mold, surgery & Move to New Hampshire
Just before finalizing the adoption, we discovered our home was filled with mold. My spleen swelled and had to be removed.
We couldn’t move until the adoption was complete.
So we packed the truck on Thursday. Finalized adoption Friday. Put the kids on a plane to my father Saturday morning — and drove north ourselves.
Sometimes life doesn’t pause for healing.
It demands courage.
When we adopted Kevin and TeeKecia and moved to New Hampshire the very next day, reality hit quickly.
Kevin had bounced through foster care. He was behind academically. Angry sometimes. Distrustful. Brilliant — but untethered.
So I did what I have always done when something matters.
I figured it out.
Monday through Thursday, Kevin rode with me across Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, and upstate New York while I sold OB-GYN medical supplies. He did “car school” in the passenger seat. Workbooks. Reading out loud. History discussions between sales calls.
Fridays were for Grandpa math sessions.
My dad would sit with him patiently — breaking down fractions the way he once did with me in sixth grade when I refused to quit.
Kevin and I ate lobster rolls between appointments. Discovered hole-in-the-wall diners. Talked about life. Trust built slowly — mile by mile.
It wasn’t conventional. It wasn’t easy. But it worked.
And that season taught me something powerful:
Sometimes education doesn’t happen at a desk. Sometimes stability looks like showing up every single day — even if that day happens in a moving car.
a place for mom — the calling
In December 2010, I found my calling.
I was hired at A Place for Mom.
No more driving across four states selling OB-GYN supplies. Now I was helping families navigate senior care.
Thirty-eight states. Hundreds of families.
It felt aligned.
By day, I helped families navigate one of the hardest seasons of their lives.
By night, I was a Mom — fully present, fully grateful.
I was getting paid to do what I loved: helping people.
At the same time, we moved back to Florida. Charlie went backstage at Disney. I transferred with A Place for Mom. My dad came with us. And somewhere in the middle of career wins and life shifts, I met Dixie — my sister-from-another-mister — who reminded me that work and reward go hand in hand when your heart is in the right place.
Then came another Top Producer trip — this time to Maui.
We were co-workers at A Place for Mom, but that trip solidified something deeper. We celebrated success together, walked beaches together, talked about life, motherhood, dreams, faith — everything. I brought Shaniece. She brought her son Mason. It wasn’t just a reward trip. It was the beginning of a lifetime friendship.
And that’s where something shifted.
That’s where Dixie became my sister.
Dixie became my heart-sister. The kind of friend who shows up without being asked. The kind who knows when you’re spiraling before you say a word. The kind who reminds you who you are when you forget.
Dixie understood me like no other. Like me, she was an adoptive mother. Dixie became my heart-sister. The kind of friend who shows up without being asked. The kind who knows when you’re spiraling before you say a word. The kind who reminds you who you are when you forget.
And just before everything changed…
Becoming Oma
I became Oma.
Charlie became Opa.
Not later in life. Not gently.
But in the middle of everything.
Becoming Oma didn’t just add a title.
It shifted my center of gravity.
It started with Lynnae. I remember holding her and realizing something had shifted in me. Motherhood had stretched me. Grandmotherhood deepened me. It wasn’t about starting over — it was about watching the story continue.
Legacies aren’t built in boardrooms or sales numbers. It’s built in kitchens. It’s built in late night talks. In showing up.
But it didn’t stop there.
Next came Nathaniel. Shaniece had a rough pregnancy. I worked from her hospital room most of her pregnancy. Now I had two grandchildren and thought life just couldn’t get any better, but it did.
TeeKecia got pregnant again, this time with twins, Apollo and Anthony. She and their father went to North Carolina before the twins were born, taking Lynnae, and my heart broke. Soon, I got a hold of Robbie, Lynnae’s dad. The man I homeschooled just before Lynnae was born. The man who turned out to be a wonderful father, one who I consider not just Lynnae’s Dad, but my son. The one who I felt wasn’t good enough for TeeKecia. He and I traveled through the night and brought Lynnae home to Florida.
Because life is complicated, after bringing Lynnae home, Robbie also moved back in, this time with his new girlfriend, Hayley, and her son, Tyson. I now had a bonus grandson. It was Shaniece, Nate, Robbie, Tyson, Charlie, my Dad, and me.
Our house became four generations under one roof. Loud. Messy. Beautiful.
They took care of me when I spent three months in/out of the hospital with Covid. Soon, Hayley got pregnant, and it was time for them to move on. Aurora was born that fall, so now I had: Lynnae, Nathaniel, Tyson, Aurora, Anthony & Apollo. Four grandkids and 2 bonus grands.
Each one arrived with their own personality, their own laughter, their own way of teaching me something new.
That title? It didn’t just add a name to me. It expanded my heart in a way I didn’t know was possible.
Becoming Oma wasn’t about getting older. It was about becoming rooted.
I wasn’t just a mom anymore. I was a matriarch in the making.
And then — life took a hard turn.
car accident and reinvention
In March 2018, everything changed.
A cement hauler rear-ended us. Years of surgeries and therapy followed. I lost my book of business. The years that followed were marked with surgeries, therapies, and hard pivots. Two lower back surgeries, two neck surgeries. Eventually, a spinal cord stimulator.
I had to pivot.
I helped launch Family CareSpace. Wrote articles. Started podcasts. Explored insurance. Tried travel planning. Built Senior Life Publications in Central and South Florida.
Nothing was wasted.
Every pivot sharpened something.
Because Christine gave me the courage to ask for help, lifelong friends came out of the woodwork when we needed them most. As I moved in and out of hospitals and we waited for Charlie’s disability decision, people from every chapter of my life stepped forward.
Childhood friends.
College roommates.
Barter network connections.
Family near and far.
They reminded me of something I have always believed:
Friends never really leave your life. They just wait for the moment you need them again.
And here in Florida, new friendships became anchors.
Charlie and I have always loved gaming. Board games. Strategy games. Storytelling games. For years, when we adopted the kids, he stepped away from it. Life was full — and not every child we welcomed into our home loved dice and dragons the way we did.
But in 2021, Charlie picked up the dice again.
His first game back was at Quan’s house.
I waited in the car for him, and was so jealous. Soon, Quan invited me to play, and now we spend 2-3 nights a week there.
And that house? It’s a gaming mecca. My happy place. Laura painted a dragon mural that looks like it might breathe fire if you stare at it long enough. Quan built a custom gaming table — and in early 2026 he upgraded it with a hydraulic lift so the center raises to reveal a built-in TV for digital maps.
It’s brilliant.
But more than that — it’s belonging.
Quan and Laura became family. When Nate turned five, Quan rented a bounce house and dressed up for a Nightmare Before Christmas party — because growing up in Vietnam, he never had birthday parties. He wanted Nate to have what he didn’t.
That’s who our friends are.
When EPIC opened, Quan gave us tickets.
Neighbors lent me an electric scooter so I could keep up.
Alex comes most Thursdays — I cook, he does laundry, we play games.
Our circle ranges from 23 to 63 years old. Age doesn’t matter at that table.
Story does.
In 2023, the car accident lawsuit finally settled.
Five years of surgeries, therapy, uncertainty — closed with a signature.
On May 9th, we bought our home in Vista Del Lago.
It wasn’t just a house.
It was stability.
It was “we survived.”
And in Vista, something unexpected happened.
We found church again.
Not the church of my childhood. Not stained glass and pews.
A ballroom. Folding chairs. Coffee brewing in the back.
And this Catholic girl found herself being shepherded by a female pastor — Pastor Sumer Grace.
It surprised me.
But it felt right.
Church became welcoming again. Honest. Human. Alive.
My dad — the man who had always been a Christmas-and-Easter-only churchgoer — now helps run the camera and reset the ballroom after service.
Charlie and I led “Fireproof Your Marriage” during Lent last year.
This year, we’re walking through another Lenten study together.
Twice a week, we pick up donations from Publix.
We help with fellowship after service.
We show up.
And I’ve gained sisters in faith — women from Bible studies, neighbors who check in, pray hard, and show up when life gets heavy.
Vista wasn’t just a move.
It was restoration.
In 2025, Shaniece married Jericho — and watching her walk toward a man who loves her deeply and leads with strength and gentleness healed parts of my heart I didn’t even know were still tender.
Jericho didn’t just marry Shaniece.
He chose Nathaniel fully.
And now they live just fifteen minutes from my office in Clermont — which means coffee dates, lunch breaks, quick “Oma, can you watch Nate?” calls, and spontaneous family dinners. The kind of proximity that makes everyday life sacred.
The Chapter That Changed Everything
In 2024 and 2025, I was rebuilding.
Health.
Finances.
Identity.
And in that rebuilding season, Dave stepped into my life in a way I didn’t expect.
He slowly became family — an “Uncle Dave” to me and my Dad’s best friend. He would come over to watch movies with Dad. I’d cook. We’d talk — strategy, leadership, nonprofit structure, board-level thinking.
He saw something in me that I had almost forgotten was there.
He didn’t see the surgeries.
He didn’t see the hospital stays.
He didn’t see the struggle.
He saw the strategist.
The connector.
The operator.
The woman who could build something meaningful.
He trusted me with real responsibility. Real conversations. Real impact.
And in those conversations, something in me woke back up.
I wasn’t just surviving anymore.
I was capable of scaling.
In November 2025, Dave moved back to Maine. But before he left, he left me with clarity.
“Stop playing small.”
Amplify With Amy K. was born out of that clarity.
Not as a reaction.
Not as desperation.
But as alignment.
Ask Amy About Aging is my heart.
Clermont Neighbors is my platform.
The Clermont Neighbors Olympics is my movement.
Amplify With Amy K. is my elevation.
It’s where I help leaders, organizations, and businesses clarify who they are and expand their impact — because I know what it feels like to lose everything and rebuild.
Dave didn’t create me.
But he reminded me who I already was.
Life is more than work
Charlie and I still game.
We still laugh loudly.
We still gather people around a table.
After years away from gaming while raising the kids, Charlie returned in 2021. His first game back was at Quan’s house. And from that moment, something in him came alive again.
Quan’s home is a gaming mecca — a custom table he built himself, upgraded with a hydraulic lift for digital maps, Laura’s stunning dragon mural stretching across the wall, shelves lined with adventure.
It’s my happy place.
Our group spans ages 23 to 63. We play Dungeons & Dragons, Shadows of Brimstone, Catan. We cook. We talk. We show up for one another.
When our cat, Juniper, got sick, and the vet was too much, Quan sent money while he was on vacation to make sure Juniper didn’t suffer.
He rented a bounce house for Nathaniel’s fifth birthday because growing up in Vietnam, he never had birthday parties of his own.
That party? Nightmare Before Christmas themed. Quan dressed as Jack. Church friends showed up as Santa and Mrs. Claus. My worlds blending again.
Alex comes most Thursdays. Dinner. Laundry. Board games. Laughter.
Friends don’t have to live next door to stay part of your story.
Time and distance don’t erase impact.
As we struggled our way through 2025, in and out of the hospital and waiting for Charlie’s disability, it was Christine who told me to ask for help. Two weeks later, she got cancer. But that last gift she gave me, was realizing that when I stepped out and asked for help, lifelong friends stepped forward without hesitation and helped.
Building Community — On Purpose
In late 2025, I launched the Clermont Neighbors Olympics.
What started as a way to bring together Kings Ridge, Heritage Hills, and Summit Greens has grown into a Central Florida 55+ inter-community league.
Creative events.
Intellectual challenges.
Athletic competitions.
Storytelling.
Art.
Dance.
Connection.
It isn’t about medals.
It’s about purpose.
Because aging well isn’t accidental.
It’s intentional.
And when my neighbors heard about it — they entered.
That’s when I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be.
And Now…
An 84-year-old neighbor’s brother is moving in with us soon.
He’s excited for home-cooked meals.
And honestly?
So am I.
Because I have never believed we walk through life alone.
Every person we meet.
Every question we ask.
Every seat filled beside us.
It matters.
The Train
One of my favorite poems is The Train of Life.
Another favorite is Trees by Joyce Kilmer, Grammie and I would say it before she tucked me in.
Life, to her, was about roots.
Faith.
Strength.
But the train…
The train reminds me that people step on and off at different stations.
Some stay for decades.
Some for seasons.
Some return unexpectedly.
Like Stephen — who survived cancer and reappeared in my life years later, only to move again.
Like Christine — who stepped off sooner than we hoped, but never left my heart.
Like my grandparents.
My mentors.
My children.
My grandchildren.
My friends.
If I have learned anything, it is this:
Success is not about titles.
Or accolades.
Or platforms.
It is about how well we love the passengers on our train.
And when my station comes —
I hope I leave behind beautiful memories for those who continue the journey.
That’s the train of life.
Passengers get on.
Some step off.
Some come back around.
But the love remains.
And now, another chapter begins.
An 84-year-old neighbor’s brother is moving in with us soon. He’s excited for home-cooked meals. I’m excited to take care of him.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from every person who shaped me — grandparents, parents, cousins, friends, mentors, children, gaming companions, neighbors — it’s this:
We are not meant to travel alone.
Every person you meet matters.
Every question you ask matters.
Every seat on the train is sacred.
And when it’s our turn to step off, I hope the people who shared the journey remember that I loved well.
Because aging isn’t something to fear.
It’s something we walk through — together.